Chapter Text
HIT ME BABY ONE MORE TIME
His alarm was ringing. Judging by how loud it was, and how far into that wretched song, it had probably been ringing for quite a while without him noticing. He hated that song. He hated that morning, he hated his life, but most of all, he hated his goddamn ex-girlfriend for picking that stupid song for his alarms. Well, actually, he probably hated himself more than anything for being a sentimental, clingy ass who wouldn’t change that song because it still reminded him of her.
Cursing mornings and worldly obligations, he shut off his alarm and swung his feet off the side of his bed. His head was swimming with thoughts of his father’s illness, the promise he’d made to him about the shop, and then there was the thing with Jokaste…
He had to clear his head and focus on what was ahead. Resolve strengthened, he stood up.
And immediately fell back down. His head was swamped with a little more than just his thoughts – he’d completely forgotten just how wasted he’d got the night before. Of course, it’s hard not to e when one is drinking with Makedon, but still. His balance was almost nonexistent and his reckless venture into the standing position left such an unbelievable ringing in his ears he was suddenly longing for some thrashy music.
Shit. He was even on the wrong side of the bed. Letting out a heavy sigh, he let his body fall back onto the bed, and rolled over until he felt the edge of the bed with his hand. Let’s try this again. Having successfully managed to get himself up on his feet, he ventured forward into the bathroom, washing his head with ice cold water, after which he put soap on his toothbrush – surely he hadn’t done anything that would have warranted that – making him plunge his head into cold water yet again. It looked like it was going to be that kind of day again.
“Well, would you look at that,” started his first interaction of the day. “Wrong side of the bed, eh?” joked his old friend, Nikandros.
Damen threw his backpack down on the counter and let all his frustration show on his face.
“You have no idea.”
Nikandros laughed in his wonderful hearty way, the first good thing that day, that somehow still made him dizzy with how loud it was.
“Can you laugh quieter please?” he said, pressing his palm to his forehead. Of course, his request only earned him another burst of laughter, his friend patting his back.
“I’ll do my best,” Nikandros promised, turning back to his previous occupation. “Get your stuff under that cabinet there, that’s where I like to keep mine too. Plenty of space.”
He turned to the place indicated and started sorting out his stuff. It had been a while since he’d had to work in the café, lately he’d been far too busy with his relationship, and now all that was for nothing, too.
“Here, put this on,” Nikandros handed him an apron with the café’s logo.
“Very… professional looking,” he replied with a smile. “So, how do I look?” he asked, having fastened the apron around his waist.
“Perfectly ready to make coffee for some sad bastards.”
At that moment, the doorbell jingled.
“Didn’t even know we were open yet,” he said.
“That’s because you were like half an hour late, sleeping beauty.” Shit. “You can make it up to me by serving that customer while I bring in the rest of today’s supplies, eh?”
“Well, only because you asked so nicely.”
* * *
Laurent woke up at precisely 6 AM as usual. He put on some water for his tea to boil while he got dressed up in his running clothes. By the time the water was boiling he was fully clothed and had his mug all ready. He then went out for his light morning run in his neighborhood. He had a little house in a nice suburban district that he was still trying to get comfortable living in. He liked to vary his route every time he went running, he was trying to get to know his surroundings better.
He got back home after about twenty minutes, took a shower and made some toast for breakfast. Drinking his tea, he read some of the latest news on his phone. He went out again at 7:30, taking the book he was currently reading with him, and headed out toward his favorite café, where he generally liked to spend his mornings. The place had a nice little gallery that was mostly empty, as people usually just came in for takeaways. He liked the quiet business of the place, and the comfortable, welcoming atmosphere.
He got there a few minutes after eight o’clock, pausing at the door. The sign on it still read closed, but the lights were already on, and he thought he could even see some movement behind the counter. Sloppy. Raising an eyebrow, he tried the door. It was, as expected, open.
There was no-one at the counter when he walked in, but someone was definitely talking behind the coffee machines.
“I understand that Mondays are hard for everyone, but you should at least try to be more welcoming,” he said as he moved up to the counter, checking the shop for any other signs of absentminded work ethic.
“Uh, sorry, did you say something?” a barista answered.
“Your door sign, it’s-”
He broke off when he saw the person looking back at him. His shock must have been more visible than he intended, because the man looked a lot more puzzled than he had any reason to be. What on earth is going on? The newcomer was a tall, olive-skinned, strikingly handsome man some years older than him, looking very ill-fitting in his waiter getup, and worn out like he’d been chewed up by a particularly nasty horse.
“I wasn’t aware the shop was hiring,” he said. The man just smiled.
“We aren’t, I’m just helping out,” he answered.
“If this is what you call helping, I’d hate to see what you mean by the opposite.”
The smile dropped immediately.
“What?”
How eloquent.
“The door sign. You haven’t switched it.” Understanding finally dawned on that giant face of his. “And you still haven’t asked for my order.”
“Oh, shit, um…”
“On second thought, the occupation waiter seems to suit you perfectly, seeing as I’ve done nothing but wait since I’ve laid eyes on you.”
That finally seemed to get through to the man, and he looked like he would now be able to do more than stare.
“Sorry.” It seemed like it physically hurt him to force the word out. Nevertheless, he did, which was the first acceptable thing Laurent had seen him do. “Are you ready to order?”
“I am, but for the sake of your job, let’s pretend I’m not, so you can flip that horrid sign.”
It took the man a while to understand what he was being told, then he moved away to the door at a notably sluggish pace.
“Good morning, sir,” came a familiar call. “What can I get you?”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s actually nice to see you. That other oaf was about to make me roast my own coffee.”
“Just the usual, then?”
No fun, like always.
“All right. But please, brown sugar. You think I can’t tell, but you’re wrong.”
The brutish man got back just after he’d paid for his coffee and the waiter turned away to start working on it.
“I see you’ve already made up your mind,” he said, leaning ont he counter.
About you? he almost asked but stopped himself.
“And I see you’ve finally managed to do at least one thing right,” he countered instead.
“Well, I don’t exactly see customers streaming in even now,” he said with a small smile.
For a moment, he just looked into the face of this strange new man in his environment – really looked. He tried to imagine what kind of a person he must be like, what made him take this stand-in job at this suburban café. What he saw was both terrifying and somehow deeply intriguing.
“You don’t really know this place, do you?”
The question (statement) caught him off guard, and behind his surprise he thought he looked genuinely hurt. Laurent frowned, and thought of something to say.
“Laurent, your coffee’s ready!” called out the other man – the barista who actually did work there. Laurent stepped toward him, choosing to leave the conversation unfinished.
“You know you shouldn’t have to ask for my name every day.”
“But then how would I know who you are?” countered the barista.
He chose not to respond – seemingly a new habit of his – and instead climbed the stairs to the nice quiet little gallery, where his usual spot awaited him with open arms.
* * *
“Do you know that guy?” Damen asked Nikandros as Laurent disappeared up the stairs.
“Ah, that’s just Prince Charming,”
“Prince Charming?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Yeah. He started coming here about a month ago, and barely missed a morning since. Our most loyal customer.”
Damen felt his stomach drop.
“So… he’s just gonna be here again tomorrow?”
“Most like.” Nikandros gave him a sympathetic pat on the back. “He’s a bitch to everyone. But don’t worry,” he straightened, “you’ll get used to it.”
I just hope I don’t have to be here that long, Damen thought.